“Sean, sounds like you’re still asleep,” Don said.
“No, no, I’m wide awake,” he said, trying to clear the morning fog from his mind. “What’s this great assignment you’re talking about?”
“It’s with Sports Today. You know ST. They want you to do a feature on the sudden emergence of black NFL quarterbacks. They saw the profile you did on Warren Moon.”
“Oh, great. That was one of my best pieces of work. But what ‘emergence’ are they talking about?” Sean joked.
“Stop giving me shit, Sean. Have you ever done any work for ST? You know before you signed up with me.”
“No, but I’ve sent them plenty of query letters.”
“The job pays well. They are offering 5K for seventy-five hundred words. In addition … are you sitting down?”
“Yeah, yes … I’m sitting.” He was actually lying down but his agent didn’t need to know everything.
“They’re picking up expenses,” Don said.
“No shit … expenses too?”
“That’s right. I talked to the editor directly.”
“Where do I sign? When do I start?” Sean quizzed.
“I was so confident you would want this that I asked them to send the contract ASAP. After I’ve had a chance to look at it, I’ll messenger it over,” Don said.
“That’s great, Don. I’ll hang around the basement until it’s delivered.”
“Fine. I’ll tell my assistant to send it right away. The editor suggested you start with this Zurich Robinson kid in Chicago. I think he’s with the new expansion team.”
“Zurich Robinson, Zurich Robinson. Why does that name sound so familiar?”
“You must remember him. He’s from your neck of the woods. Used to play quarterback at Southern Florida Tech,” Don said.
“Oh yeah. I don’t think I ever met him, but I do remember him vaguely. I didn’t cover any of the small black colleges when I was in Atlanta.”
“Well, he is supposed to be the hottest young quarterback in the NFL. ST is sending over some bio information on him with the contract. They said they didn’t have much, but I told them to send what they had. You should already have info on Warren, Randall, Rodney, and Vince.”
“Vince?”
“Sean, wake up, man. Vince Evans.”
“Oh shit. I forgot he still plays for the Raiders. My man Vince still kicking butt at forty. He’s gonna be a black George Blanda,” Sean joked.
“See I do know something about sports,” Don boasted. “You may be my only full-time sports journalist, but I’ve been doing my homework.”
“I see. I stand corrected,” Sean said.
“Okay, Mr. Elliott. Give me a call when you’re up and about.”
“Sure, soon as I shower, shit, and shave,” Sean said.
“Good enough! I’ll talk with you later. Congrats,” Don said.
“Thanks, Don. Peace out.”
Sean hung up the phone and smiled to himself as he rubbed the overnight growth on his usually smooth face. He was thinking about the five thousand dollars and being able to bill someone else for his food when his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a deep male voice very close to him.
“Say, Gee, can I take a quick shower before I leave?”
Sean turned to face the lanky, but muscular, brown-skinned stranger. He had forgotten the name of his overnight guest. This familiar loss of memory often occurred with Sean after a night of drinking, and especially when it came to his sexuality, something he did not like to spend a great deal of time thinking about. It usually only entered his mind when the alcohol took control. When dealing with people, his personal policy was, don’t deny it, don’t advertise it.
Sean had discovered his sexuality at a summer baseball camp when he was twelve. One of the sixteen-year-old counselors was instructing him on his batting swing and when he pressed his muscular body against Sean’s backside, both of them got erections. In Sean’s case it was the first erection he ever noticed and he felt its throbbing power. That night, when the lights went out, Sean discovered the joy of masturbation, his mind clouded with thoughts of his camp counselor.
During his senior year in high school, Sean realized his attraction to men wasn’t just a passing fancy. When his prom date, Millicent Thomas, offered him more than a good night kiss, his sex failed. He felt embarrassed then just as he did now with this nameless trade. They were different types of embarrassment, but neither one made Sean feel good about himself.
“So, Gee, me takin’ a quick shower won’t be a problem. I don’t want to ’cause no extra problems,” the stranger said.
“Oh no. Sure, man, you can take a shower. There are some towels outside the shower,” Sean said as he pointed toward the bathroom without looking at the stranger.
“You don’t even remember my name, do you?” the stranger smiled.
“Of course I do, but you need to get busy, ’cause I’ve got to be downtown in ’bout thirty minutes.” Sean lied on both counts.
“Cool,” the stranger replied.
As the guest walked nude toward the bathroom, Sean slowly moved from the bed to look for his wallet and watch. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found them both in his normal hiding place, a wastebasket covered with fake trash. Sean spotted the stranger’s clothes piled next to his bed and he quickly rifled through the blue work pants, trying to ignore the dirty, yellow-used-to-be-white briefs and the thick basketball socks with huge holes. He found a thin, worn black wallet, and inside a New Jersey driver’s license with the name Gregory Johnson. Sean put the wallet back into Gregory’s pants and looked around his apartment and shook his head. More than ten beer cans were scattered throughout the room. The cans explained his nagging headache and case of cotton mouth. On top of one of the cans were the small remains of a joint. Sean did not use drugs himself but kept a small amount for special guests. Sometimes the trade Sean found attractive needed a little bit more stimulation than beer or wine to get in the mood. In his boxer underwear, Sean started picking up the beer cans, when Gregory walked out from the bathroom. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and was using another to briskly dry his hair as he walked toward Sean’s computer.
“So you a word processor or something like that?” Gregory asked. Sean did not remember meeting Gregory, never mind if they had discussed careers. And he wondered what did people call him, Gregory or Greg.
“Oh yeah, I am a word processor,” Sean lied, sort of. Sean spotted his favorite pair of baggy jeans and put them on with an Atlanta Braves’ jersey.
“You make a lot of money doing that?” Greg asked.
“I do okay,” Sean replied.
“Don’t forget you said you would lend me some money to get back home. I can’t leave you my home phone number but I got a beeper number in case you want to get together sometime. I’ll give you a special code so I’ll know it’s you,” he said.
“Sure,” Sean mumbled as he pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and pressed it into Greg’s large, ash-covered hands.
“Thanks, Gee, this sho helps a brother out,” Gregory said. “Dang, look at them caps you got. You collect ’em or something?” Greg asked as he noticed the collection of professional sports baseball caps Sean had gathered over the years. He wore a different one every day.
“Yeah, I do,” Sean replied. He was hoping Gregory wouldn’t ask for one of his caps.
“Do your friends call you Gregory or Greg?”
“Ah, man, peoples call me Greg. Sometimes my moms call me Gregory,” he said, still eyeing the caps.
“Cool. Look, Greg, I don’t mean to be rushing you, but I’ve got to get out of here,” Sean said.
“Hey, homes, I understand. Got to git to that J.O.B.,” Greg said as he put on his blue work uniform, an outfit he had removed the previous night with the agility of a quick-change artist. Sean gazed at Greg instead of enjoying the morning sunlight that flooded his fifth-floor walk-up. Memories of the previous night were returning. Sean had met Greg a
t a seedy bookstore slash nude bar called the Stargate between Forty-second and Forty-third on Eighth Avenue. The Stargate had managed to survive the city’s efforts to clear the area of all the sex shops, gay bars, and prostitutes—male, female, and shemale. They had chatted briefly before Sean invited him back to his apartment. Sean thought Greg was handsome in a brutal, masculine sort of way and he liked the fact that he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the lamp. All he talked about were the cars he fixed and washed in a nearby Manhattan garage. He remembered Greg telling him he could not stay long because he lived with his common-law wife over in Jersey City and she would raise all kind of hell if he stayed out late. Sean did not have to ask him if his wife knew where he was.
Sean liked the Stargate. You didn’t have to waste a lot of time with the courting and the chase. They didn’t have clubs like this back in Atlanta, at least as far as Sean knew. Atlanta didn’t even have adult bookstores. Most of the men in establishments like the Stargate came there for one thing and one thing only. The joint was popular with black and Puerto Rican hustlers, whom Sean tried to stay away from, but he was not totally opposed to giving trade a few dollars to help out. What he liked most about this seedy establishment was the anonymity and the lack of commitment among its colorful clientele. There was no pretense of love, of maybe moving in together, buying a dog, and living happily ever after. Sometimes, if the sex was great, Sean would see the trade again. But it had to be stupendous, not just good. And if the man showed signs of appreciating Sean for more than sex, then it was see ya. Sean had done the I Love You More Than Life thing and wanted no part of that ever. He had convinced himself that it was next to impossible for two black men to have a long-term, totally committed, loving relationship. He imagined that such relationships existed, but it just hadn’t happened to him. When the time in his life came where he needed loving affection, Sean had told his sister, he would buy a puppy. And yet, as difficult and as lonely as being black and gay could be, Sean struggled not to live the life of the tragic black homosexual, despite the many days when he didn’t know which part of his being weighed heavier, being a black man, or being gay.
But with the majority of Sean’s encounters with men like Greg, he had mixed emotions afterward. Partly because he knew it was just fucking, and not the lovemaking he was too stubborn to admit he desired. The minute Sean would reach his climax, a wave of sickening guilt rushed over him and he suddenly hated being attracted to this type of man. Maybe it was time to leave New York where men like Greg were a dime a dozen. Make that twenty dollars apiece.
CHAPTER 6
VBD’S
It was a good week for Mia. As soon as the FiveAlive sports segment opened with its fight song light anthem, Mia launched into her new assignment. Her first sportscast went so smoothly that the crew of cameramen applauded Mia when the newscast had gone off the air and the anchors had removed their microphones. She looked great; her makeup looked as if it had been applied by a skilled plastic surgeon; and her hair hadn’t moved unless Mia wanted it to.
There were positive phone calls from viewers to Channel 3’s voice-mail comment line and even a few faxes of praise for the new addition to the FiveAlive news team. Ratings during Mia’s first week were up slightly, which was not surprising with the hype Channel 3’s PR department had generated on Mia’s behalf. There were new promos featuring Mia, a mention in Kup’s column in the Chicago Sun-Times, and Mia’s face plastered on several of Chicago’s city buses and El stations.
Everybody at the station seemed pleased, with one notable exception, Carolyn Moore, an almond-colored anchor woman who had been at Channel 3 for more than five years. Not only did she not appreciate all the attention Mia was receiving, Carolyn was also a bit miffed that she was not consulted about promoting Mia, a courtesy the general manager had promised and in the past had kept with every new addition to the team. The FiveAlive newscast was Carolyn’s domain, and she was not happy about sharing her throne. Especially not with a beauty like Mia Miller. While the blond anchorman eagerly welcomed Mia on her first day, Carolyn had given her a dry, “Yes, welcome, girlfriend.” As if she just couldn’t say Mia’s name. At a very early age, Mia had learned to ignore the rudeness of people jealous of her, and she was quick to recognize condescending friendliness, perhaps because she often used it herself.
When the rest of the news staff took Mia out for drinks and dinner at Houston’s restaurant after her first broadcast, Carolyn politely declined, saying she had a standing manicure appointment that she did not dare cancel. At dinner, Chip Winston, the weather guy, told Mia that Carolyn had hit the ceiling when she found out the Oak Street clothing store that supplied her with an occasional outfit wanted to do the same for Mia. Even Mia’s mother commented on Carolyn’s ice princess act after viewing tapes of the first couple of shows that Mia had sent, as promised.
“What did you do to her?” Emma asked when they talked late one night.
“Would you believe nothing?” Mia responded.
“Then why does she have her panties in a bunch?”
“Don’t know … don’t care,” Mia answered. She really didn’t understand Carolyn’s attitude. Carolyn was well respected, and Mia had heard she was among the highest-paid media talents in Chicago. She had been nominated for a local Emmy for three years running and was supposedly happily married to a successful Chicago businessman. One evening at the Eastgate health club, in the building next door to the station, Mia bumped into Carolyn at the bank of Stairmasters and Lifecycles. Dressed in a black Lycra midriff top and neon pink biker shorts, Mia had just finished signing an autograph for one of the young ladies who worked at the health club’s information desk. Her long hair was pulled together in a loose ponytail, giving her the look of a high school cheerleader rather than a professional journalist. Carolyn had looked tired in a gray warm-up suit and without her standard pancake makeup. She had rolled her eyes at Mia without speaking, then turned to whisper and giggle with an overweight friend whom Mia did not recognize.
At first, Carolyn’s chilly treatment bothered Mia, but then she decided she had seen this movie too many times to be worried about the ending. She was used to it, especially when it came to black women. It didn’t matter whether they were light-skinned or dark-skinned, they would give Mia the blues. It happened in junior high, high school, and college, especially after she became the first black girl to pledge Tri Delta at Northwestern. From then on, the sisters in the black sororities gave her the silent treatment at Greek activities and when she saw them on campus. When Mia pledged Tri Delta, it was history-making news on campus, and naively, Mia had thought her black peers on campus would be proud. In Dallas, a few blacks at her high school were excited for her when she was named homecoming princess and a member of Keyettes, a previously all-white service organization. Throughout college, it didn’t seem to matter that she had a black roommate before she moved into the sorority house or that she was dating one of the most vocal and popular black athletes. No one seemed to take into consideration the rumor Mia had heard through a former roommate. Namely, that she would never make line with the AKA’s or Delta’s, especially after she had gone out with men their members had dated. But the men had asked her out, she hadn’t asked them. Mia felt the women’s behavior toward her was childish, and even though her mother was somewhat disappointed that she didn’t pledge a black sorority Mia felt she could do without the extra hazing she had been warned about. She was growing tired of black people saying she “talked white” and “acted white,” simply because she spoke English correctly and had been seen tossing her hair like a white girl. Besides, the sisters in Tri Delta were excited to have Mia in their organization, even though they were always asking questions about why black folks did this and why they did that, as if she were in charge of all the black folks on campus. Mia would always respond, “I don’t know, why don’t you ask them?” Many of her sorority sisters acted nervous when Mia’s dates, always black and usually very dark-skinned, arrived to pick her up. When th
ey tried to fix her up, the guys were usually light-skinned and nerdy. Mia didn’t have the heart to tell them that when she said she liked black men, she meant blue-black. Though Mia loved her sisters at the Tri Delta house, she lived there for only one year, before getting an off-campus apartment with the sister of her then-boyfriend.
Mia was under the impression that this type of treatment was over for her, especially after she met LaDonna when they were both working in Jackson, Mississippi. LaDonna Woods was her first close, black female friend other than her sister. Even though Mia had been cold toward her on their first meeting, because of her previous experience with black women, LaDonna won her over when she declared, “You got only twenty-four hours to be shady, Miss Thing. I’m LaDonna, the official pretty girl’s best friend.” They had been friends ever since.
In many ways Mia had hoped that Carolyn would treat her like a good friend rather than an enemy, especially since they were the only two black women employed by the station as on-air personalities. Mia decided after the first week of Carolyn’s icy treatment that she was not going to allow Carolyn, or anyone else for that matter, to ruin something she had worked for and deserved. The other employees at the station treated her with great respect and even the usually uptight manager had joined the group for drinks and dinner to celebrate Mia’s successful evening debut.
Forget Carolyn! In the weeks and months ahead, Mia wanted to get to know some of Chicago’s leading sports personalities like Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, Shaun Gayle, and B. J. Armstrong on a first-name basis. She hardly ever had problems forming friendships with men. Keeping them as friends was another story.
It was also during the first week that Mia got the plum assignment of interviewing both head coaches of Chicago’s NFL teams and their starting quarterbacks. The main six and ten sports anchor and sports director had a family emergency so he gave Mia the interview assignments. Mia was excited about the interviews, and after visits to her health club, she spent the evenings studying press guides, clippings, and all the information she could get her hands on regarding the two coaches and their starting quarterbacks. One of the things Mia loved about her new job was going to bed late and not at the usual seven o’clock bedtime she had been accustomed to with her previous anchor duties.
And This Too Shall Pass Page 6